Tom All Alone (13)

Tom would come to think of those two weeks in Cornwall as some of the happiest times he'd known. All the places they visited - as mum had promised, somewhere different every day. They went to Perranporth, where huge foamy waves came rushing up along the length of the beach, and the sea was so cold that it made Tom scream when he ran down into it. They saw the spooky, snaggle-tooth ruins of Tintagel Castle, where Russell told Tom about the legends of King Arthur and the Round Table knights, and Merlin the magician, and Lancelot and Guinevere - names that fired his imagination and made him eager to know more. They went to the Witches Museum in Boscastle, which thrilled him with its tableaus of witches and demons, its myths and legends, its cobwebby corners and books of spells.

"Salvatori and Matthew think old Mrs Cooper over the road's a witch," Tom said.

Russell sniggered, but mum glared at him.

"That's not very nice," she said. "She's not a witch at all, so don't say things like that."

"It's only what they said."

"I don't care. It's naughty of them. Mrs Cooper's a lovely woman. She's a good friend of your nan's, too, so you need to show her respect."

There was an old piece of fabric in one of the display cases, in the shape of a small child and dark like a shadow, and the card said it was sometimes found in different parts of the museum when no one had moved it. Tom stared at it long, willing it to move, but glad when it didn't.

One day they went to a secret cove the farm woman told them about, down at the bottom of a twisty track, through trees and brambles that caught at Tom's legs. No one else was there, and they had it all to themselves for the day - building sandcastles and tunnels, and paddling in the icy sea, and exploring the caves and rock pools, and collecting shells - some looking like big snail shells, others like the one on the garage sign around the corner from where they lived. They spent the whole day there like they were on their own private island where no one could find them.

They had picnics with egg and cheese sandwiches and steaming flasks of 'holiday' tea, and cones of special yellow Cornish ice cream that was thick and buttery, and unlike any other ice cream Tom had ever tasted.

In the evenings, they would go for a drive to a quay-side pub and sit outside with their Cokes and crisps, looking out over the harbour at drawn-up fishing boats - the fishermen there unloading their catch, then later sitting with their beer and pipes and talking in a strange language that Tom thought he understood, but had never heard spoken in that way before.

"Why do they talk like that, mum?"

"Shh, they'll hear you. Because they're Cornishmen, that's why."

Sometimes they'd buy something from the fishermen - mackerel, or a crab - and take it back to the caravan to cook on the gas stove for tea. On wet evenings they'd stay in and play cards on the folding table - Whist or Newmarket, which Tom had been taught to play - or Russell's murder game of Cluedo. Having tea with toast and listening to the hiss of the gas lamps, and feeling cosy and warm with the sound of the rain pattering down on the roof like dried peas on a drum.

They would all sleep soundly at night - mum and dad on the other side of the curtain they pulled across when they went to bed - and wake to the early sunshine and the cock-crow from the farm, and bacon and egg breakfasts, and the map spread out there across the table to plan the new day.

Tom had also never known such a special time for them as a family - just the four of them, doing everything together. Playing, laughing, going out, having new experiences - being close like that. Dad was much happier, too, without the moods he sometimes had at home. Tom had often worried about those. He'd asked mum about it sometimes - especially if she looked upset as well.

"Dad just has to work very hard, that's all. He just gets tired."

"Is that why he shouts sometimes?"

"Yes, love. Being tired does that to people. We all get in a bad mood sometimes."

But on holiday, there was none of that. Mum and dad were cheerful every day. They sometimes walked together holding hands, which they didn't do at home. Dad sang songs, too, which made everyone laugh. And Russell was more friendly and generous, and they got on better together. Tom wished it could always be like it - that they could always be on holiday. In the final few days, he felt the weight of their return growing heavier inside him - the thought of leaving this and going back. And of what would come soon afterwards.

It was raining hard on the day itself, as if to draw a line under it. As they drove away from the caravan, Tom looked back at it - watching it grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared behind a hedge and was gone. Their special little home for their holiday. Their happy time together. They passed the farm house and the woman was there with the two dogs, waving to them as they went.

Tom felt the tears coming then. Mum handed him back some tissues from her bag.

"Come on, Tommy. Wipe your eyes and blow your nose. We all feel the same. All good things come to an end."

"But why?" he asked. "Why can't they go on?"

"Because they wouldn't be special then. We have to go home and go back to work. And Russell has to go back to school."

She looked at him.

"And you've got school soon, too."

He sobbed at that. She reached back and patted his leg.

"But we can come again next year, so we can look forward to that. And it'll be nice to see nan again, and Bobby. I expect they've missed us, so they'll be glad to see us back."

He settled a bit at that.

"Why can't we come here to live?"

"Because we have our jobs, and we can't just leave them. And all our friends are at home, too, aren't they."

"Yes," he sniffed.

There was nothing more to say. So they settled into the journey, with the rain washing over the windscreen and the wipers going back-and-forth back-and-forth back-and-forth and showing only grey beyond. They took a different route going home, on bigger and busier roads, and the journey didn't seem to take so long or be so interesting. The rain stayed with them for most of the way, only lifting for a few short stretches, though without much sun. Tom thought of the things they'd seen and done - all the special places they'd been too. And Dartmoor and Stonehenge and the Chinese Pagoda, none of which they saw this time. Just the wet and the grey, and the long road.

As they got closer to London, Tom could feel it closing around them and drawing them in, like the dark sky was coming right down on them. The houses and factories and buildings and streets. The cars and lorries thundering by. The lights and bustle and noise. All the people about. The city spreading out everywhere. They didn't speak much - just watched it build through the windows. Tom wanted it to be over now.

And then it was, as they passed the common and drove along the Lower Richmond Road, and saw the familiar shops and the garage with the shell on its sign, and the Half Moon pub on the corner. They slowed, then turned right at the 'Buses and Taxis' wall, and drove along, up to the house, and pulled over and stopped. Then they just sat for a few seconds, unmoving.

And then the front door opened and nan was there waving.

And dad turned the engine off.

And the holiday was finished.

(continued)